


thank you, Michelangelo!

by celestialmechanics



Series: galleria dell'accademia di firenze / musée du lourve [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, Pining Ushijima Wakatoshi, Pro Volleyball Player Sakusa Kiyoomi, Pro Volleyball Player Ushijima Wakatoshi, Ushijima POV, hyperfixation on sakusa's hands, ushiwaka: diasaster gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:40:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26996836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestialmechanics/pseuds/celestialmechanics
Summary: Tobio thinks he was happier 15 minutes ago when he wasn’t burdened with the knowledge that (1) Sakusa Kiyoomi was apparently modeling hand products now; (2) Sakusa Kiyoomi had gotten a brand deal within a single year of playing in the league, whereas Tobio hadn’t gotten a sponsorship until his second year; and (3) Ushijima Wakatoshi had glued his unblinking eyes to an advertisement featuring Sakusa Kiyoomi and his perfect, perfect hands for 15 minutes straight.Tobio looks at Wakatoshi with a mixture of judgment and pity. Wakatoshi looks like he understands why.
Relationships: Sakusa Kiyoomi/Ushijima Wakatoshi
Series: galleria dell'accademia di firenze / musée du lourve [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1996507
Comments: 29
Kudos: 257





	thank you, Michelangelo!

**Author's Note:**

> [i am begging you to check out this amazing fanart of hand model sakusa](https://twitter.com/mixed_blessing/status/1316507278481272833?s=21)
> 
> [AND ANOTHER ONE!](https://twitter.com/mixed_blessing/status/1316830184700608512)
> 
> update: there is now a [part 2](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27341323) for this story/series!! it's kiyoomi pov!!! hooray!

It’s around the ten-minute mark when Tobio starts to get a little worried. 

It’s not unusual for Ushijima Wakatoshi to become lost in his thoughts: if anything, it was entirely normal for him to zone out, eyes glazing over and staring at nothing at all. There’s sort of an unofficial seating arrangement at team dinners that requires Kourai to sit next to Wakatoshi - he’s the only one with enough energy and charisma to drag Wakatoshi back into the conversation and keep him from falling into wide-eyed trances with chopsticks halfway between his plate and his gaping mouth. 

Tobio wouldn’t be concerned if Wakatoshi was staring off into space from where he sits on the bench in the Adlers’ locker room, because that would be perfectly normal. But he’s not staring at the row of lockers against the wall with a dazed look in his eye- instead, he’s staring at a spread in this week’s copy of _Jump!_ and he’s been staring at it for 11-and-a-half minutes. This would be odd for anyone to do, but it’s even stranger that it’s Wakatoshi since he only ever reads the ads placed between the pages of actual content. Tobio suddenly worries that Wakatoshi has gone catatonic, that maybe he’s fallen unconscious, and no one has noticed yet. He squints, focusing his eyes on Wakatoshi’s chest to make sure he can still see it rise and fall: and when he confirms that yes, Wakatoshi is alive and well, he’s only partially relieved because, at this point, 15 minutes have passed. Tobio starts to feel antsy and wants to snap his fingers in front of Wakatoshi’s face, but they’ve been getting along pretty well recently, and Tobio doesn’t want to risk making things weird by pointing out how bizarre Wakatoshi is acting at the moment because that would be rude, and-

“I know you’re not over there reading a fucking Shakespeare novel in that magazine, Ushiwaka. What the hell have you been staring at?” Kourai beats Tobio to the punch, waving his hands erratically in front of Wakatoshi - and Wakatoshi, one of the most stoic men Tobio has met in his entire life, actually jumps slightly and slams the magazine shut in his surprise. 

“Shakespeare was a playwright. Not a novelist.” Wakatoshi informs Kourai. Kourai bares his teeth and tries to snatch the magazine from Wakatoshi. Wakatoshi rises and stands on the bench, holding the magazine over his head and out of Kourai’s reach, only for Fukurou to creep around the corner and snag the magazine away during Wakatoshi’s moment of inattention. Wakatoshi’s eyes widen in surprise, and by the time the other three men realize what’s happening, Fukurou is sprinting back out of the locker room. Kourai tries to escape through the doorway immediately after- but Wakatoshi yanks him back into the locker room by the back of his shirt - and if Tobio wasn’t concerned before, he’s _definitely_ concerned now because Wakatoshi isn’t one for shenanigans: and this, most definitely, is a shenanigan. 

Wakatoshi flies through the locker room’s exit, sliding across the waxed tile floors in only his socks (Jesus Christ, he’d gotten enraptured in that magazine before he’d even put his _shoes on?_ ), Tobio and Kourai close behind, and the three men burst into the main gym where Fukurou is doubled over in rib-squeezing laughter. He has hands on his knees and is gasping for air, the magazine lying on the linoleum floor in front of him, pages spread wide to display the magical thing had managed to capture Wakatoshi’s unblinking gaze for 15 straight minutes: 

And there, in the center of the spread, is a full-page advertisement for a non-oily hand moisturizer. The pages’ dark color scheme juxtaposes against the creamy skin of the man modeling the product. His hair is curly and inky black, gelled strands falling in front of his dark eyes, his crisp open-buttoned white shirt exposing the hollow of his throat, nested between collar bones sculpted from marble- but the focus of the image is his hands. His left-hand frames his face daintily, parted lips slightly obscured by fingers, his left wrist gripped loosely by the fingers of his right hand. Each finger is elongated and pale and imposing, the jutting bones of his knuckles threatening to cut through the page: and Tobio thinks he was happier 15 minutes ago when he wasn’t burdened with the knowledge that (1) Sakusa Kiyoomi was apparently modeling hand products now; (2) Sakusa Kiyoomi had gotten a brand deal within a single year of playing in the league, whereas Tobio hadn’t gotten a sponsorship until his second year; and (3) Ushijima Wakatoshi had glued his unblinking eyes to an advertisement featuring Sakusa Kiyoomi and his perfect, perfect hands for 15 minutes straight. 

Fukurou’s cheeks are stained with tears as he continues wheezing from where he’s collapsed on the floor, trying and failing to quell his laughter. Kourai places his hands on his knees and starts dry-heaving. Tobio looks at Wakatoshi with a mixture of judgment and pity. Wakatoshi looks like he understands why. 

Their coach blows his whistle to signal the start of practice and announces that they’re starting the day with serve and receive training. Wakatoshi aims every single one his terrifying jump serves at Fukurou- and even with bruised forearms and swollen knees, Fukurou can’t help but think it was worth it. 

* * *

If Ushijima Wakatoshi was capable of lying, he’d probably say that the advertisement was what kickstarted this “crush” (Kourai’s words, not his) - but Wakatoshi is not a liar, so here’s the truth:

He’s 20 years old, and he’s just moved to Tokyo, and he’s practically friendless and bored. There’s plenty to do in Tokyo, but Wakatoshi really only loves to do one thing. He finds the gym closest to him on the map, packs a gym bag, and starts walking: and is frustrated to see that the court is already occupied by another group. He doesn’t grumble, turns on his heel to leave- when he catches a familiar head of hair out of the corner of his eye, all inky black and coiled and shining under the pale yellow light of the gymnasium. 

He doesn’t really mean to sit down and watch the rest of the practice match - but apparently, he does because he’s still there after the whistle blows, and the teams have cleaned the courts and thanked their coaches and have started to leave the building. Kiyoomi sees him just before he realizes that this might seem sort of odd. “Wakatoshi-kun? What are you doing here?”

Wakatoshi freezes. “I live here.”

“In the gym?”

“No. In Tokyo.”

Kiyoomi squints at him. “Okay. Good to know. Why are you at my practice match?”

Wakatoshi points at his gym bag. “I came to practice. I didn’t know there was a match. I stayed to watch when I realized you were playing.”

Fortunately for Kiyoomi, the mask he wears over his mouth obscures the confused yet endeared blush dusting his cheeks. “I see.”

Wakatoshi feels like his hands are sweaty. This is weird. “Ok. I’m going to go practice now. Goodbye.” He bows and quickly walks away. Kiyoomi only stares after him. 

* * *

Ushijima Wakatoshi is 23 years old, and he thinks he must have done something particularly heinous in a past life to piss off the powers-that-be because this is just _brutal_.

Because that stupid little advertisement is plastered in the dimly-lit shop windows he passes on his pre-dawn jog, or it’s attached in an automated email containing clippings of weekly coupons, or it’s printed in the newspaper next to the silly little comic strips, or it’s on Instagram, or Twitter, it’s in Wakatoshi’s sweat-soaked jolt-awake nightmares and his deep-sleep blissful dreams, and it’s in that stupid, godforsaken _Jump!!_ magazine that he still reads every week just to appease Satori. Wakatoshi glares at the magazine lying across the room on his dresser, wonders if he could cause it to spontaneously combust if he glared just a little more intently: but the magazine just sits there, uncharred and intact. Wakatoshi hates it. 

* * *

If Ushijima Wakatoshi was capable of lying, he’d probably say that the practice match in a college gymnasium was what kickstarted this “crush” (Tobio’s words, not his) - but Wakatoshi is not a liar, so here’s the truth:

He’s 18 years old, and he doesn’t know it’s his last-ever high school national tournament, but it is. Shiratorizawa survives the first round, and they have some time before they have to return to the hotel, so Wakatoshi drags Tendou and Eita and Ohiro to watch some of the other teams play and analyze some matches in-person. Eita wants to watch Fukodorani (“They sure do have a pretty setter, don’t they, Semi-semi?”), but Wakatoshi really only cares about one team other than his own in this entire tournament. 

Kiyoomi is in top form. Wakatoshi feels his breath catch as Kiyoomi makes fools of every receiver on the other side of the net, sending wobbly serves that dive down and tailspin and angle off of forearms, bouncing to odd corners of the court. Next to him, Satori shudders and says that Itachiyama is a team he’d be terrified to play against: “But! It’d be fun to face a real challenge like that, huh, Wakatoshi-kun?”

The ball is set to Kiyoomi, and the final point scores. Wakatoshi smiles despite his better judgment and thinks he’d be proud to lose against Sakusa Kiyoomi.

He doesn’t get the chance until a few years later. 

* * *

Tobio awkwardly clears his throat. “Are you going to be okay?”

Wakatoshi is sweating. He blames it on exertion during warm-ups. “Yes.”

A loud bang echos through the gym, heard clearly despite the sounds of the crowd. Wakatoshi and the rest of the Adlers watch the Jackals warm-up, and as Sakusa Kiyoomi swipes his hair out of his eyes and prepares to spike another toss, Wakatoshi is pretty sure that no, he’s not going to be okay. Kiyoomi launches into the air and spikes another ball, and the spin on this one is sickening, and the photos in the magazines don’t even come _close_ to doing his hands justice, and Wakatoshi’s throat is drier than he realized. It’s not until the match begins, and Kiyoomi smirks at him from across the net, not until Wakatoshi struggles with pulling his gaze away from those sallow knuckles; that he realizes: yes, he might actually have a problem.

The Adlers lose. He’d tell you more about the match if he remembered anything from it, but he was a little distracted, so you’ll have to forgive him for sparing the details.

What he does recall is this: Sakusa Kiyoomi’s right hand (palm flushed from the smack of the ball, knuckles purpling from the rush of increased blood flow, wrist slightly swollen, maybe Wakatoshi should go for eye contact instead? Would getting sucked into the oblivion of his irises be any better than being crushed beneath his palm?) reaches beneath the net to shake Wakatoshi’s hand- and thank god for strokes of luck because Wakatoshi’s own palms are sweating, but at least he can justify it- and Kiyoomi grabs his hand, shakes it- squeezes it. Pressure light enough that anyone else might have missed it, brief enough that it could be disregarded, misremembered. 

Wakatoshi hears someone inhale sharply- and when Kiyoomi yanks his hand away, he realizes he’s the one who made that sound. Wakatoshi looks up and finds Kiyoomi’s eyes and decides yes, it’s so much worse to stare into those than to confront these marbled hands, because Kiyoomi’s eyes are enormous and slightly alarmed, and his cheeks are still pink from the match. 

Wakatoshi turns on his heels and books it to the locker room. 

* * *

If Ushijima Wakatoshi was capable of lying, he’d probably say that the advertisement was what kickstarted this “crush” (at this point, Wakatoshi’s words) - but Wakatoshi is not a liar, so here’s the truth:

They’re 14 and 15 years, and there’s a training camp in Osaka. It’s July, and the heat is mind-numbingly oppressive, the kind where just stepping outside from an air-conditioned building makes it seem as though someone’s dumped a bucket of fire on your head. Wakatoshi has gone to several of these camps by now because he’s 15 years old and closing in on 178 centimeters, and he’s stronger than most kids by miles- and having gone to so many of these camps, he’s started to recognize people. One of those people is Sakusa Kiyoomi, who is 14 years old and kind of quiet. Wakatoshi is also kind of quiet, so they spend lots of time together in comfortable silence. 

And on the last day of camp, during a practice match in which Wakatoshi and Kiyoomi occupy different sides of the court, Wakatoshi starts to really get into it because he’s sent 3 serves in a row directly to Kiyoomi. And Kiyoomi, quiet and polite and happy to get lost in a crowd, throws Wakatoshi a look far too mean for a 14-year-old to make: and when it’s his turn to serve, he sends a serve with the nastiest spin Wakatoshi’s ever seen. Wakatoshi bends to dig the ball, but it strikes his forearms and goes careening out of bounds, and the next two serves do precisely the same thing. He answers Wakatoshi’s three aces with three of his own.

Wakatoshi might be glaring at Kiyoomi, and Kiyoomi might be glaring right back, but the corners of their mouths are turned upwards, and they bare their teeth in snarling smirks. 

Three for three. Wakatoshi thinks he might like this whole ‘rivalry’ thing more than he’s willing to admit. 

* * *

Kourai clears his throat: once, twice- and then gives up on being subtle and sticks a chopstick against the nape of Wakatoshi’s neck. He instantly responds, ticklish bastard that he is, the back of his head jolting backward to trap the chopstick. He has a thick indentation across his forehead from where he’d been laying his head against the table’s edge, but his face remains stoic and difficult to read as he turns to look at Kourai. Kourai only smiles: “care to rejoin the land of the living, Ushiwaka?”

Wakatoshi grimaces. “I’d rather not.”

Tobio leans back in his chair, kicking the front two legs off the ground entirely, and bites his inner cheek in contemplation. Wakatoshi being bummed out is even stranger than him being zoned out, and Tobio would prefer that this bummed out version of Wakatoshi disappear. He leans forward and claps a hand on Wakatoshi’s shoulder in an attempt at comfort. Once an ample amount of time has passed, he pulls his hand away and nods in satisfaction. Wakatoshi looks confused. Kourai throws an ice cube at him. “You’re useless at this, aren’t you?” Tobio flips him the bird: and upon leaning back in his chair once more and doing a scan of the room, figures out how he can be useful. 

He manages to catch Atsumu’s eye from across the room and gestures for him to come over. Atsumu glances behind his shoulder, where Shouyou is talking Kiyoomi’s ear off: something Kiyoomi usually resents but seems grateful for tonight. Atsumu stands from his chair and saunters across the restaurant’s tile floors, the soles of his shoes sticking to the thin layer of grime, and plops down next to Tobio. “What’s up, Tobio-kun?”

“Go get Hinata.”

Atsumu scoffs. “Why the hell did ya signal me over here if ya were just gonna make me go get Shou-kun?”

Kourai fishes another chunk of ice out of his glass and hurls it at Atsumu. Atsumu pouts, but stands and crosses the room (again). Tobio watches as he taps Shouyou on the shoulder, signaling back towards their table: and sees Kiyoomi stiffen ever so slightly. Shouyou simply nods and leaves Atsumu on Sakusa duty, skipping across the room towards their group. Kiyoomi’s eyes are as large as porcelain saucers, his gaze never leaving Shouyou even as Atsumu launches into some tirade (Tobio understands - he doesn’t like listening to Atsumu, either).

Shouyou halts in front of their table, and for some reason, his eyes are already locked onto Wakatoshi. “Ushiwaka-san! You played a great game today!”

Wakatoshi’s eyes don’t move away from his plate. “Thank you, Hinata. You as well.”

Tobio pulls at Shouyou’s elbow, trying to get his attention. “We wanted your help with-”

Shouyou shakes him off and starts fumbling for his phone. Kourai prepares another ice-projectile, but Shouyou has already dropped into the open seat next to Wakatoshi, angling his phone screen towards him. “Did you know Omi-san had a sponsorship deal this year? He got to model the product! Want to see the pictures?”

Wakatoshi absolutely does not want to see the pictures, given that they already live on the backs of his eyelids, act as the home screen to his subconscious- but he doesn’t get the chance to say any of that because Kiyoomi has materialized right next to their table with Atsumu jogging behind him. Shouyou’s phone is suddenly no longer in his hand but is instead in Tobio’s glass of water. Four pairs of eyes (and then some, because they’re in the middle of the restaurant and Kiyoomi’s mad-dash across the room had gotten the attention of most patrons) stare at the submerged phone- and then one by one, they lift their gazes to Kiyoomi. 

Kiyoomi clears his throat. “Sorry, Shouyou. I’ll buy you a new one tomorrow.”

Shouyou can only stare, his mind still trying to catch up with the previous events. “Sure, yeah, ok- but uh. Why did you-?”

“Can I speak with you? Privately?”

Wakatoshi’s eyes stay resolutely glued to the phone in Tobio’s glass, waiting for Shouyou to answer Kiyoomi, for the two of them to walk away so that Wakatoshi can sink down the leather booth’s back and onto the floor; but he feels an elbow dig into his side, and he jolts, looking up to see that Kiyoomi’s request was not directed at Shouyou but at Wakatoshi. 

He slides out of the booth and stands, following Kiyoomi through the front door and around to the building’s front. 

Atsumu slides into Wakatoshi’s now empty seat as Tobio fishes Shouyou’s phone out of his cup. The four of them stare at it for a while, and then Atsumu gasps and says, “Tobio-kun, give me your bowl! We can put Shouyou’s phone in the rice, right?”

Kourai pelts him with ice. “That only works with uncooked rice, you goddamn moron.”

* * *

_Is it possible to choke on your own heart?_ Wakatoshi wonders as he follows Kiyoomi outside. He’s pretty sure it’s not something that can happen- but then again, he’d never been all that great at science, so the wonders of the human body are mostly foreign to him. 

Kiyoomi comes to a stop in front of him and sheepishly turns around. Wakatoshi can see the very tops of his cheeks, which are pink (either from the restaurant’s heat or the chill in the November air, Wakatoshi’s sure), and his chest rises and falls as he lets out a steadying exhale. “You played well tonight, Wakatoshi.”

This is so strange. Wakatoshi decides to just go with it- it’s better than talking about the handshake or the moment after the handshake or just now in the restaurant, so he nods. “You as well, Kiyoomi-san.”

Kiyoomi lets a short huff escape his nose, his version of a laugh. “I’m, uh- I’m sorry about Shouyou. I don’t really know what he was doing.”

Wakatoshi pins his gaze to the sidewalk, scuffs the heel of his shoe along the dark stains that used to be discarded gum. “I think he had planned on showing me some pictures.”

Uncharacteristically shy, Kiyoomi chuckles again and rakes a hand through his coils. “Yeah, he- I did a, um- photoshoot. For a brand deal. He thinks it’s cool, I guess, so he likes to show people.”

And Wakatoshi has never been all that great at reading people- he’s the first to admit that. He misses social cues frequently; doesn’t know how to sugarcoat his words; doesn’t know how to be anything other than blunt; anything other than honest. But right now, he thinks he’s picking up on something. Because Kiyoomi’s hand (his beautiful, beautiful hand) is scratching the back of his neck, and his eyes seem to struggle with meeting Wakatoshi’s (not that he’s any better, but that’s beside the point), and Wakatoshi thinks he owes it to himself to be honest: “I’ve seen the photos before.”

Kiyoomi stills and catches his eyes. Holds them. Wakatoshi has never wanted to look away so badly. “You’ve seen them?”

He’s terrible at being anything other than blunt; bad at forming sentences that contain more than a noun and a verb, a conjunction or two- “I saw it in a magazine. I wanted to kiss your knuckles.” -and that wasn’t what he’d meant to say, but he doesn’t know how to lie, so he stares at the ground- wonders if maybe an earthquake could hit. Or maybe, like in a cartoon, a piano might come flying through the window of a building overhead, and crush him as all of the keys ring out at once, a dissonance deserved by a man who doesn’t know how to say anything in-tune. 

But no piano rains down on him: instead, he feels two hands (hands that are beautiful, and beautiful- cut from marble, thank you Michelangelo!) on the curve of his jaw, thumbs on his cheekbones, and a mouth on his. Kiyoomi kisses him gracefully, urgently; if his hands are cut from stone, then his lips are made of cloud paint, whipped, and malleable; and beautiful, and beautiful.

Kiyoomi pulls away, just enough so that Wakatoshi can see those irises again- and he thinks he’ll draw a map later, keep it folded in his pocket at all times so that he can find his way out of the dark forest of those eyes- and grabs both of Wakatoshi’s hands, limp by his sides, boneless like he’s in a dream, and places one at his hip, one at his neck; demands, “kiss me back.”

And sure, this is weird. But Wakatoshi decides to go with it, full-speed ahead; he turns his cheek to one side, places his lips to the valley between Kiyoomi’s thumb and pointer finger- and swallows down a choked gasp with something like a smile. 

* * *

If Sakusa Kiyoomi was asked when it all started for him, he’d probably say that he fell in love with Ushijima Wakatoshi because he was a talented volleyball player; because he enjoyed their rivalry - but Kiyoomi is not so forthcoming, so here’s the truth:

Kiyoomi is 12 years old, and he falls for Wakatoshi in a public bathroom because fate is one hell of a comedian. Kiyoomi glances in the mirror and sees a boy, maybe 13 years old, approaching the other sink. They don’t say anything to each other, don’t have some staring contest in the mirror; in fact, Kiyoomi doesn’t look upwards again until he hears the other sink turn off (after a full 45 seconds, impressively enough). He watches as the boy pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and daintily dries his hands (his beautiful hands, far too large for a boy so young, dry and cracked and calloused and clean-); folds the handkerchief with the damp side facing inwards; leaves the bathroom silently.

Kiyoomi watches the door swing shut before turning to look at his own reflection once more, watching his flushed cheeks work around a now-scowling mouth: how ironic, he thinks, to meet the love of your life in a public bathroom. He looks back down at the sink basin, filling quietly with burbling and soapy water; smiles to himself, private and small; and scrubs those beautiful, beautiful hands, cut from marble.

  
_How ironic_ , he thinks to himself, years later, as he winds his pinky finger around the pinky from another set of hands, still too large and dry and cracked and calloused and clean- but the other pinky squeezes right back; he decides to just go with it.

**Author's Note:**

> this was goofier than most things i write. apologies. but I love them. no apologies 4 that. 
> 
> edit: 10/15/20 - I usually try and get back to everyone's comments but there's a lot on this one and I don't know how 2 interact without sounding like a bot saying "thanks!" over and over again, so I'll just say it now: THANK YOU for all of the lovely comments!!!!!!! you are all so sweet, it really means a lot to me when people leave their thoughts on my work, so I appreciate u all very much :) hopefully I'll make some more ushisaku one day, they are so fun to write!


End file.
